


Again

by LuvEwan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Drama, Gen, Ghosts and Delusions, Guilt, M/M, Or does he, Post-Order 66, Qui-Gon Lives, but then dies?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuvEwan/pseuds/LuvEwan
Summary: Ben Kenobi visits the cantina and sees Qui-Gon Jinn, who died before Order 66.He’s going mad.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 121





	Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to outpastthemoat for thinking up a very important aspect of this story, and for being generally lovely and fantastic.

He didn’t go to the cantina often. 

It was a long ride into town, with the suns beating on his back and sullen, anonymous eyes watching him from distant dunes. He made the trip for food only when it became an absolute necessity, when he had sucked the last of the marrow from animal bones; he was rarely hungry anyway, and he was still something of a stranger, certainly an _oddity_ , to the Mos Eisley locals. Fair-skinned, though lesser than he used to be, because the oily sun blockers and homemade liniments sold in bottles at the market stands were expensive for someone who didn’t know how long he needed his money to stretch. 

_There’s always a way to make money_. The voice drifted past, like smoke, as he tied his eopie outside the cantina. He remembered (that is what he was now, a keeper of memories, living in the shifting light and dark of the past) when he was a Padawan and stranded with his Master, having escaped some calamity, losing their cloaks and credits in the process. He had been predictably concerned while Qui-Gon was predictably nonchalant. _There’s always a way to make money. Honestly or not_. And then Qui-Gon made some money, performing simple Force tricks in a town square, which Obi-Wan had not been convinced was very honest. Or proper. 

That person he had been, the precise and dutiful Jedi, _Obi-Wan_ , was as far away, as untouchable, as the other people who faded from his life, people who had died, people whose fate he would never know. 

Ben had no one to shake him out of his maudlin trances, except the eopie, Oloo, who grunted loudly when he lingered at her saddle, as if to say _move_ along. He patted her head and then walked into the cantina. 

A few chairs creaked and swiveled, regulars looking Ben over when he passed. He sensed little hostility. Mostly the Force was heavy with desperation, as the air was heavy with cheap alcohol, death sticks, and the inescapable musk of sweaty bodies in close quarters. Men sat in booths, hunched over chance games. An older Rodian grumbled something about “outsiders”, flicking his bulbous eyes over Ben. 

That was a reputation he had tried to avoid since he came to Tatooine. He let his beard grow, wore old clothes and cracked leather boots half-eaten by the sun. He spoke in a low growl, if he spoke at all, hiding his Coruscanti accent. 

And he kept to himself. 

He found an empty stool at the bar and slumped down, running a hand through his hair. He was soaked through from the ride. His shirt clung to him. Sweat dripped off his chin. He wiped it away with his sleeve. 

The bartender, Strakk, ambled over to him. He was a portly Besalik, with a mouthful of sharp teeth, and one of the first beings he met on Mos Eisley. A rougher type, but he had to be, considering the sort of patrons who frequented the cantina. “Still here, huh? I figured somebody woulda got ya by now, Twig. That’s what folks do with twigs. Snap ‘em.”

Ben snorted. “Maybe I’m doing the snapping.”

“Ha!” The Besalik filled a smudged glass with plain, dark beer and slid it across the bar. “And maybe I’m gonna win first prize in the Miss Tatooine Pageant.”

“You’ve got my vote,” Ben took a long drink, swallowing and waiting for the buzz to start vibrating behind his ears. He quickly drained the glass and felt a good, warm ache settle in his chest. He relaxed on the stool. 

Another voice, teasing, light with laughter: “ _if you weren’t a Jedi you’d be a drunk, Master_.” 

Strakk poured him more, and he drank all of it at once, eyes closed. The memories so often replaced reality. Sometimes he could not tell the difference. Or didn’t want to. The beer helped blur the lines. 

Another reason he didn’t go to the cantina often. 

Even Strakk reminded him of kinder times. He found himself wondering what had become of Dex, the gregarious Besalik who always kept him well-fed and well-informed, but then another glass was slapped down in front of him, and he let the thought go. 

“Ya know,” Strakk said casually, looking him up and down, “It’s farking stupid of ya to waste away. Wrong person sees your skinny butt around here and they’ll shake you down til there’s nothin left. Not even that skinny butt.” 

“I can handle myself,” Ben replied, in the flat, hard tone he used outside his own adobe. It was months before he could hear himself talk and not feel as if he was doing an impression of someone else. 

“You could be handling better. The offer still stands—“

He sighed and shook his head. “I’ve told you before, I’m not interested.”

The Besalik shrugged. “See, that’s how ya give yourself away, offworlder. Anyone that’s really from here, anyone that’s really stuck in this shavit-hole, would be salivatin over making that kinda money.”

“There’s always a way to make money,” Ben returned his focus to the beer, his hand curled around the glass. If he wasn’t careful (and he always, always needed to be careful) he could drink himself into oblivion. That empty place inside him was waiting to be filled by _something_ , and alcohol was so convenient, so soothing. 

“That’s what I’m sayin, friend. For you, there’s lots of ways to make money. Easy ways, if you’d just make yourself...easy.” Strakk’s mouth stretched into a huge grin, his eyes dark and suggestive. 

Ben had been aware of the effect he had on certain people for most of his life. He noticed the shy smiles, the outright flirting, the way he could gain trust with a lingering look. It had saved him before, in desperate situations, but he would not take Strakk up on his offer. 

Ben Kenobi could not be saved anyway.

“I’m a little old to start whoring,” he glanced around the dim bar. He noticed a few stares, the specific hunger he had begun to identify back when he was a Padawan. His allure was an emotionless detail to him, especially now, as Ben, who carried so much regret and loss. _I would be an old and ineffective whore_ , he thought to himself with grim humor. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Strakk leaned in close, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Take that guy over there,” he motioned his head towards a hooded man sitting at the end of the bar, “I bet he’s got deep pockets, and he’s been watchin you like a hawk since y’got here.”

Ben glanced in the man’s direction, but the hood concealed most of his features. 

“I’ve never seen ‘im before. Must be another offworlder. He’s doin about a good a job as you with blendin in too.” Strakk rumbled with laughter, “Hasn’t touched his drink, just looks at ya when he thinks no one notices.”

Ben felt unease seep through the haze of inebriation. An offworlder with a noticeable interest in him was concerning. Nowhere, not even a miserable dustball like Tatooine, was safe from the Empire’s reach. And Ben had a job to do. He stroked his beard, feigning indifference. “Maybe it’s time I move along,” he said, loud enough to catch the watchful stranger’s ears. 

And then he heard the subtle scrape of barstool legs against the floor. 

Ben centered himself in the Force. Likely it was just an angry man looking for someone to fight. He had encountered his fair share of those since arriving on Mos Eisley. 

Strakk looked at the man, who Ben could sense standing beside him, to the right. He could sense him very well, in fact, a verdant glow in his head. _Blast it. Force-sensitive._

“Ya need somethin? Don’t like yer drink? Cuz you’re not gonna find better than what I got—“

“The drink is fine,” the man answered softly, calmly.

Ben sat his glass down. His throat was thick. Strakk kept talking, but Ben’s heart was hammering too hard for him to understand the words. He gripped the edge of the bar and closed his eyes. 

_It can’t be._

Of all the people he had lost, he had lost this man...this _mirage_ , first, before Vader, before the Jedi holocaust, when he was still Obi-Wan. He had not expected it at all, back then, in the thick of the war. 

Blindsided. 

He was gone. 

Ben—Obi-Wan—had learned how to go on. He still wasn’t prepared for Anakin’s betrayal, he never could have been prepared for that, but his heart was already held together with half-healed stitches by that point.

He grabbed his beer and drank, staring steadily at a stain on Strakk’s apron. 

_I’m mad._

He’d worried about this before. The early months at the adobe, he had looked at his own reflection and seen a bedraggled lunatic. He barely slept (truthfully, that had not changed much since) and spent hours staring out the window, whispering the names of the fallen. So many. Too many.

Too much. It was too much. The stitches had snapped, the wounds festered and turned to rot. 

Of course he had seen Qui-Gon everywhere, as he grieved. Any tall man with long brown hair, on countless worlds, disappearing behind corners. The _almost_ of it crushing him again and again with renewed loss. 

He was stronger then. He wouldn’t survive this. He couldn’t allow himself to be dragged into the delusion. 

Strakk scratched absently at his chest. “Couldn’t help but notice you’ve got a real keen interest in my friend here.”

“I do,” the man admitted, in that same calm, low voice. 

Ben looked up at Strakk’s face, trying to ground himself in the reality of the bartender’s hard features. His reptilian eyes were fastened to the newcomer. Ben knew Strakk well enough to tell he was calculating something. 

“Pretty, isn’t he? A little scrawny, but that doesn’t matter much when ya get down to it, does it?” 

_Oh, for the love of—_ Ben’s face burned. He pushed his glass at Strakk. “Alright, that’s enough for today.” 

A hand gripped his shoulder. Ben tensed, remembering the saber hidden beneath his robes. But the touch was not threatening. In fact, he found himself unable to move, suffused with a sense of peace. 

“A Meltdown for my friend, please,” the man said, and sat beside Ben. 

Strakk rumbled with amusement, mumbling something under his breath that Ben didn’t care to decipher. He ambled over to a low cabinet and started sifting around. Meltdown wasn’t the kind of drink typically requested.

For one, it was triple of the price of anything else on the menu. 

Ben glanced at the man. He saw long, scarred fingers folded on the bar. 

He recognized almost every scar. He had caused a few of them himself, when he was an overeager, green Padawan, practicing with a real lightsaber instead of a trainer. 

The marks were unmistakable. He would know those hands—

_You’ve become what Lars said you would. Crazy Kenobi, seeing things because you can’t deal with the truth._

Seeing a kind memory, where there was really a man who wanted to ply him with pricey booze and then, well, there wouldn’t be a _then_. Ben was a failure, and apparently insane, but he wouldn’t give over his body. 

He’d rather stay skinny. It was easier for Oloo to carry him anyway. 

Strakk returned holding an amber-filled glass, plus the bottle. No doubt he hoped to make money on extra shots. The Besalik was in for a lot of disappointments today. “Here’s your Meltdown, Twig.”

_So it would seem._

Ben took the drink and finally made himself turn to the man. He was Qui-Gon Jinn.

Of course, he could not be. Of course, the man had died. Strakk and everyone else in the seedy bar were seeing someone else entirely. Only Ben could see the kind eyes, the long, grey hair tied back in a half-tail. 

Ben looked down at his drink. _What will become of the boy, now that I am…_

“You do look skinny,” the man remarked, leaning in closer. “Perhaps I should buy us a meal.”

Strakk perked up, but Ben waved him away. “You wouldn’t order food here without a death wish.” _Although, you’re already dead..._

“Ah, I see,” the man who was not Qui-Gon chuckled. “I can’t say I’m surprised about that. Certainly we’ve been to better establishments.”

Ben’s chest tightened. He wondered if the Force believed in limits to cruelty. He took a sip of the gifted beverage. It went down smooth. The last time Qui-Gon ordered him a Meltdown, it had been on the eve of Obi-Wan’s appointment to the Council. 

“Perhaps we could go somewhere quieter,” the man suggested. “After you’ve finished your drink.”

Ben looked at his hands. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t his old Master, already lost to him. But he was not entirely crafted from Ben’s unstable mind—Strakk had been talking to him, was even now opening his fat hand to accept a small pile of credits. 

Ben would be walking out of the cantina with a stranger, a stranger whose intentions were unknown and likely undesirable. 

A stranger who looked like Qui-Gon Jinn. 

He stood, straightening his tunics and glancing up at the man. His mask had not moved, not an inch. 

Strakk sniggered under his breath, but Ben was already following the broad figure out into the bright Mos Eisley afternoon.

 _I’ve gone mad_ , he thought again.


End file.
